


Nothing I'm Running From

by Lucterna



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, plus size reader, warning for language concerning weight and self image
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 05:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucterna/pseuds/Lucterna
Summary: As a professional vocal coach, you've taught plenty of celebrities how to better use their voices, but none of them have ever captured your attention like Niall, none have ever filled you with longing and want despite your best efforts to separate business and pleasure.





	Nothing I'm Running From

Niall Horan is one of those guys that you’d taught yourself as a girl to stay away from. He listens too intently, laughs too loudly and somehow manages to flirt with everyone. The last one doesn’t even have romantic implications, it’s just a facet of his fountain of charm; he knows how to work a room, how to work a person, without ever losing sight of who he is himself.

Or so you’d assessed in the month or so since you’d become his vocal coach, sitting with him behind a piano or over a guitar and raising your voice for his to follow. Of course, you can’t make his voice any more beautiful than it is, so much of your focus goes to breathing, finding the right way for him to incorporate what you teach him when he’s running around on stage so that he won’t fall flat or run out of air to sing his lines. You would like to say that he’s a diligent student, but he clearly made it his mission as early as the first week to find out just what would distract you from the task at hand. Not that he hasn’t let you teach him what’s necessary along the way, but he’d quickly found out the sorts of things that made you laugh, your favorite place to go for lunch when he was just much too hungry to get down to business - “Nope, nope, man’s gotta eat, woman, ya gonna starve me and expec’ me t’sing? Yer cruel, that’s what ya are.” - and all manner of inane things.

And a lot of that is the problem, it’s so easy to get taken in by him, by those humored baby blues meeting yours dead on no matter what you’re doing.

You suspect you’re not the only type of person who could become hypnotized by his presence, but you don’t even want to entertain the thought - guys like Niall Horan don’t date girls like you. It’s not self-deprecating, really, it’s just fact. You can’t imagine a girl any less than a ten on his arm, slender and leggy, perfect hair, finely sculpted face. You’ve never felt like you fit that particular bill. There’s not a time in your life you haven’t been full in your cheeks and round about the middle, even when you were much younger.

And that’s okay, it’s not a bad thing, you think. Sure, it stunted your social life for a little while, but that evened out too. You have your good days and your bad days, but that’s everyone - you don’t want to let your extra weight drag you down like that. So, you’re not a ten, but you won’t give yourself less than a five for sure. It’s a silly system.

The February sky is a serene and empty gray as you make your way over the front walk to Niall’s door, stifling a yawn in the collar of your favorite fluffy sweater before you reach out to knock. He answers in a pair of sweats and an Eagles tee, leaning heavily on one crutch and he gives you a sleepy grin.

“Aren’t you a sight fer sore eyes?” he teases, hobbling backwards enough to let you inside.

Involuntarily, you take a glance down at your fuzzy, teal sweater, your favorite pair of jeans with the fancy stitching around the pockets and the ratty sneakers you’d thrown on, before shaking your head. With a playfully exasperated sigh, you look at your empty wrist and ask, “Isn’t it early for flirting, Mr. Horan?”

All he does is grin at you, leading the way into his living room. The television is turned down, tuned to some newscast, and the room itself is lit by the standing lamp in one corner, aglow otherwise by the white light filtering in from the sliding glass doors on the other side of the room. In one swoop of his hand, Niall makes a gesture that you sit and also brings your attention to the top of his glass coffee table.

“Made breakfast, if you’re hungry,” he says, and for a second you think you must be crazy, because his tone sounds almost shy. “Not much, can’t stand on dis damn t’ing for long,” he huffs, plopping back on the pillows and motioning to the knee he’d had surgery on. He settles his crutch with a clack against its mate at the end of the sofa.

Your eyes take in the bowl of cut up fruit - strawberries, bananas, chunks of pineapple - a little plate of sweet rolls and a steaming kettle of what can only be hot water, meant for the two cups with little strings hanging out of them. There’s even a little dish of sugar and a boat of creamer for the tea and you find yourself smiling at all of it.

“Niall, you didn’t have to do this, you could have called me and I would’ve brought something along,” you’re not admonishing him, but you do worry about his leg.

“Did t’at last time,” he protests, with a brief, stubborn pout on his lips. “Besides, I like makin’ food,” he says, wiggling over so he can reach out for the teakettle.

“Okay,” you relent with a little chuckle.

While he pours the hot water into the teacups, you hide another yawn in your sweater. Niall’s home is warm against the late winter chill, cozy enough you think you could nap right here if given the chance. You try not to think about how comfortable that means you’ve become around him, or how the idea that he hobbled around on his bad leg just to make the two of you breakfast is a particular brand of sweet that tickles at your heartstrings with the threat of plucking them. Niall’s just a good guy, this is the kind of thing he does, even though you wish he wouldn’t have worried. You hope the task didn’t hurt him too much.

With the sweater still pulled up to your nose, you snuggle your face in it briefly, until you feel eyes on you and you catch Niall’s gaze across the table. “What?”

He licks his lips, looking unsettled for all of a second before he’s giving you his usual teasing grin, “Ya look like a cat, all snuggly in yer sweater over there.”

An embarrassed blush rises in the apples of your cheeks. “Um…”

But Niall just snorts softly, shaking his head as he turns to look at the teacups again, “You like cream or sugar?”

You’re not sure why the question amuses you, but there’s a bit of laughter in your voice as you tell him, “A little of both please.”

Usually, you’re not that keen on eating in front of people - even those you know well - but there’s something about Niall that put you at ease a little early on. Maybe it’s the way he’s more concerned about his own food, or the way he doesn’t watch your plate or the way you chew; he talks enthusiastically and never once has he made a comment about the weird way you have of picking things apart with your fingers before you eat them. It’s refreshing. So the two of you talk and eat and you’re pretty sure you’re just being paranoid when his eyes drop to your lips now and again as you bring the chunks of fruit to your mouth.

Afterward, like the good student he is when you get down to it, you go through his breathing exercises, settling down beside him on the sofa so you can help him maintain posture while he sings. Really, he’s got a lovely voice and even if you taught him nothing, you’d still love to hear him. You let him pick the song he wants to work on, so sometimes you’re regaled with his parts in music made by his own band, but others he surprises you with pieces by Michael Buble and the Eagles. Of course, you sing along with him, showing him when to breathe, straightening up his shoulders so he can properly pull the air in and let it out, and the harmony the two of you make… well, you try not to think too much about that.

The hour passes much too quickly, and Niall fusses while you pack up your tape recorder and other paraphernalia. You tease him that you’ll just be back tomorrow so it’s not like he won’t see you again soon.

Just as you’re about to sling your bag over your shoulder again, he blurts, “Let me take ya t’ dinner t’night.”

You’re obviously startled, mouth working open for a second while you flounder for words. “Oh, I-” Why would he ask that? Does he feel bad about you trekking out here while he’s on crutches? Maybe he’s just grateful for the lessons and the help, he does tend to thank you quite a bit. “Aw, Niall, you don’t have to do that,” you finally say, smiling at him, flattered.

His head tilts briefly to the side, brows knitting up, but you’re not quite certain what he’s thinking, even when his expression evens out. “Nah, I want t’. Not’in fancy, or whatever.”

You bite your lip, missing the way his gaze darts to the gesture as you roll it between your teeth and then let out with an amused sigh, “Well, alright, dinner’s good. Sure.”

His face lights up and your heart melts a little. “Great, I, ah…” He glances around a moment before looking back up at you, “Well, me and Basil will be around to pick ya up then?”

You almost ask who “Basil” is, but belatedly remember Niall’s bodyguard. “That’s cool, what time? Where do you want to go?”

He fidgets, tugging a bit at the brace on his bad knee. “Six okay? And there’s this little pub around the way, ye might like.”

Chuckling softly, you think you know the one he’s talking about; you’ve even been in yourself a time or two with friends. Of course, it’s Irish owned and run and thus the fare offered is quite the same, but you’ve never actually eaten there, just gone in for drinks at the bar. “Great,” you say, unconsciously giving his shoulder a little pat and squeeze. “I’ll let myself out so you can rest and I’ll see you then.”

He looks a bit put out that you dismiss him showing you out the door, but doesn’t protest. “A’right, see ya.”

Six o’clock rolls around before you know it; you’d spent a few hours putzing around the house because Niall was your only appointment for the day, only to realize you’d fallen asleep during some soppy romantic comedy and had literally twenty minutes to shower and dress. Your doorbell rings while you’re still trying to decide which pair of jeans won’t sink in and give you the worst of muffin tops. You drop the pair you were holding up to replace the ones you’re wearing and curse a little to yourself and you’ve got just enough time to do the fastenings back up - covering a pair of lacy, violet panties you’d put on in an effort to feel braver than you think you actually are - before the bell rings again.

You tug open the door to find exactly who you’d expected, leaning on his crutch, his cheeks flushed a pale pink from the cold.

“Hey,” you greet, about to apologize for not being ready when you notice the way his eyes haven’t made it to yours, his tongue darting across his lips.

“Ah, bit… um, cold fer dat, innit?” he asks, finally dragging his eyes up to your face.

You can feel it starting to burn, and you fold your arms across your front, squeezing in your breasts and tummy, assuming he’s referring to the lace trimmed camisole you’d put on over your bra. “I’m gonna put a sweater on over it, promise,” you say, not sure how to interpret that, somewhere between a little too warm and embarrassed.

“Ah, yeah,” he says, belatedly, and it looks like his cheeks have grown ruddier.

A little jolt runs through you, “Crap, come in! Sit down! I promise I’ll just be a couple more minutes, I’m sorry I wasn’t already finished.”

Niall blinks, following in after your invitation, but clearly not unhappy about taking it. “Nah, it’s okay, yer good,” he replies with a chuckle. He accepts your invitation inside, settling into one of your armchairs while you finish getting ready. You try not to think how at home he looks in your modest living room, not at all like some huge popstar, just a guy in a sweatshirt and jeans.

You top off the jeans you hadn’t intended to wear with a gray cardigan to go over your tank, slip in a pair of cute earrings and try not to lament the lack of time to do basic makeup. “It’s just a pub,” you grumble to yourself, before grabbing your purse and keys and rejoining Niall in the living room.

On the ride over, Niall seems a little distracted, eyes wandering in ways you’re not certain they ever have before - at least not in front of you, but he still chats amiably, laughing when you tell a really bad joke that reminds him of Harry. In the front seat, his bodyguard is silent, but he does glance into the rearview mirror several times, checking on the two of you.

At the pub, you help Niall out of the car, holding his crutches and putting an arm under his to help him step out. His cheeks are definitely flushed this time.

“Sorry ‘bout dat, it’s just…”

“Don’t worry about it, Niall,” you assure him, much more comfortable now. “Everyone needs a hand once in a while.”

He gives you a strange little smile. “Yeh, yeh, you’re right. Alright, inside we go then!” And he only lets go of your arm to get to his crutches, looking momentarily disappointed down at them before he leads the way inside, you close behind and Basil in tow.

Inside the pub is just as you’d expect. There’s a live band in one corner, playing something that sounds vaguely Celtic with a bit of American bluegrass tossed in. In another corner, on mute, is a large flat screen broadcasting some sports game. There aren’t too many patrons, just a group gathered in front of the band, whooting and dancing and another seated at the bar where there’s food and drinks being served while they watch the game. Niall goes that way, motioning you along with him and grinning. He chats up the bartender and gets you both drinks and lets you order your food.

The two of you plop down on stools, the crutches between you.

“So, you like it?” Niall wonders, like a little kid showing you a stick figure drawing that he is particularly proud of.

A smile tugs at your lips. “It’s nice, got good music,” you assure him, taking a sip of the drink you’d ordered. It’s made just right and before the end of the night, you can’t help indulging in a couple more.

You and Niall spend the evening watching the game, eating and drinking and laughing. He leans in too close to talk, and his good knee bumps your thigh every time he twists around to speak to you. You find yourself concentrating hard to understand his accent when he gets lost in enthusiasm over things, but it’s wonderful.

At some point, you get treated to an extra drink from a bloke sitting further down the bar, who gives you a little grin and a nod when you peek down at him.

Accepting the offering - it’s the same you’ve been drinking - you give him a little smile in turn. He’s cute, surprisingly so and who are you to turn down a free drink? When you turn back, you find Niall frowning.

“You okay?” you wonder, tipping the glass up to your lips.

He blinks, peering up at you. Those too blue eyes hold yours a moment, flickering down to your mouth around the rim of the glass before he snorts like he’s amused at something and shakes his head. “Yeh, I’m great. Nice lookin’ lad down there, huh?” His tone turns teasing.

A blush rises in your cheeks, darkening up the pink that had already begun to linger there from the booze. You’d maybe indulged too much already, considering neither Niall nor you had to drive home. “Little bit,” you mumble, chancing a glance back over your shoulder at the fellow who bought it.

“Definitely lookin’ this way,” Niall comments, his grin still in place, though his voice goes rough for a moment. “You wanna go talk to him?”

Just before you look away, the guy waves, and you can’t help the stupid smile on your face for a second. You’re not really used to this. Not that guys haven’t flirted with or hit on you before, but this is definitely the first time a random stranger has singled you out at a bar and bought you a drink. It’s weird. But to Niall, you shake your head quickly, rubbing at your cheeks as if that’ll get rid of your blushing.

“What? No, we’re hanging out, me and you,” you assure him, watching the smile sit weird on his face. “Sorry.”

“Ah, no, don’t be sorry, far be it for me to get in your way, missy,” he’s teasing again, but he doesn’t sound half as amused. It certainly makes you tilt your head to one side, but you don’t ask.

“Yeah, okay,” you mumble, laughing a little and shaking your head. “How about you buy my next drink and hit on me instead?” You’re sort of flirting? Not really, not in a million years would Niall really hit on you, but it’s a fun thought, especially with your belly all warm from the alcohol and deep fried food you’d just consumed.

Niall actually cackles, “Yeah, I been buyin’ all yer drinks already, you know!”

“Whaaat? No, don’t do that!” Your eyes go a little wide.

He’s still laughing as he says, “I invited y'out, least I can do is pay fer ya.”

“Yeah, but- but-”

His finger comes down unexpectedly on your spluttering lips. “But nothin’, drinks on me, babe.”

You still feel like you shouldn’t take advantage, but Niall doesn’t take no for an answer. Plus he’s really good at convincing you that more to drink is better, so that the two of you are a giggly mess before you leave. On the way out, Niall pauses to toss something away and then the two of you spill out into the midwinter chill, Basil at your backs. Niall stays in the car when you get home, but he leaves the door open, making sure you get up the stoop and inside okay, before he waves goodbye.

You fall into bed feeling warm and good and full and you don’t even care that you’re hungover the next morning.

“What’s in the basket?” Niall wonders, opening his front door a few days later.

Voice lessons are technically twice a week, so it’s not unusual for you to be there, but the basket in question is new. It’s an old hand me down from your mother, and you remember taking picnic lunches in the park with her when you were tiny and the family dog was just a pup. When you had moved out on your own, she’d given it to you. Today, you’ve filled it with sandwiches and snacks and a DVD that Niall said he was interested in seeing.

“I brought lunch,” you say, holding the basket up. “Kind of, as a thank you for the drinks and food and stuff.”

Niall ducks his head for a moment, chuckling. “Ya didn’ hafta do that,” he says, but it’s obvious in his tone that he appreciates it.

You eat in the middle of the lesson and put the DVD on after, and Niall hobbles into the kitchen despite your protest to make dessert and grab a couple beers while you watch the movie. The two of you end up leaning against one another while you laugh around the mouths of the bottles, and if Niall minds you pressed so close, he doesn’t say anything or move. In one moment you think he lays his head on yours, but you can’t be sure you aren’t just imagining it. It’s silly anyway, and it wouldn’t mean anything; you’ve seen Niall with his friends, so you know how tactile he really is. It’s just nice to feel like you’re included in that now.

“Hey,” he says, when there’s a lull in the movie, peeking over his beer at you. “I know dis is a weird question, but I’m gettin’ together with a few friends Friday, maybe golfin’ or somethin’, you wanna come?”

You blink over at him, not sure what to make of this. “Oh, uh, well, I dunno how to play golf… are you sure you should be on that knee of yours?”

He pouts, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I’m not really an invalid, ya know. I can stand long enough t’ hit the ball. You can ride in the cart with me, or whatever, you don’t gotta play.”

Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you finally shrug. “Yeah, sure. I’ll come keep you company.”

He beams and you swear it’s better than actual sunshine. “Great. We’ll come pick ya up again, grab some lunch or somethin’ before we hit the green, yeah?”

You will the sudden butterflies in your tummy to stop, “Y-yeah.”

His shoulder bumps yours again and you’re lost for a moment in his eyes and smile. You’re not dumb, you know you’ve got a little thing for him, but you also know it’ll never amount to anything. Besides, confident as you may be that you’re not ugly or undesirable just because you’re also fat, it doesn’t mean that everyone’s going to find you that way. Still, when you reluctantly let Niall see you out a couple hours later, your stomach is in weird knots and you fight down the burning urge to tilt your head up for a kiss or shift close for a hug. Niall seems a little tense anyway, leaning on one crutch, looking like he wants to say something more, but leaving it at “I’ll see you Friday, then?”

**

You dream that night about kissing him, his pale pink lips tasting of the beers you’d shared, callused guitar player’s hands splayed on your tummy with the threat of sneaking up your shirt. You tell yourself it’s stupid to have a crush on Niall Horan when you wake up, but your stomach is still warm and squirmy when you meet a friend for lunch.

“Hello, hello,” Sarah calls out, snapping her fingers near your face until you jerk your gaze back to her. While you blink, she raises both eyebrows at you. “Where’d you go?”

“Uh,” you can’t fight the color rising in your cheeks. “I was just… remembering this weird dream I had.”

With her eyebrows still on the verge of disappearing into her hairline, she scans your face and you dread the moment her lips turn up in a little smirk. “Was it a weird sexy dream? Because your cheeks are really red right now.”

And they only get redder as she says it. “It wasn’t sexy, like… I mean, there was no sex in it, but just…”

“But it was about a boy?” She practically leans across the table at you, lips curving all the more.

“I feel like a teenager when you say it that way,” you grumble at her, stalling. At the same time, your phone dings, signaling that you’ve gotten a text message.

“Who cares? Tell me about your dream. Was it about a real boy or?”

You slide your phone out of your pocket to take a look at the screen, absently mumbling, “Yeah…”

Sarah squeals, “A real one! And I mean an actual real boy you know, not some celebrity or something?”

You blink up at her before the name on your phone registers, “Uh, celebrities are real boys.” Niall’s name is at the top of the text message and you remember too late that your friend is still watching you like a hawk so you can’t stop yourself from smiling kind of stupidly at the phone.

“Well, sure but they don’t really count. Unreachable, you know. What are you smiling - Oh my God, is that him?” Sarah leans across the table, looking ready to crawl over it to see your phone.

You pull it away out of unconscious defense. “What - Sarah!”

She falls back into her seat, giggling. “So it is him. What’s his name?”

Absently, as you open up his text message, you mutter, “Niall.”

_Still on for Friday? Want t get breakfast before we hit the green?_

“Niall?” Sarah wonders aloud, frowning at you.

You don’t answer her, instead texting Niall that breakfast would be nice.

A very nearly literal lightbulb goes off over her head. “Niall Horan? One Direction Niall Horan?? As in, the boy you’re giving voice lessons to?”

_Great ! can’t wait t’ see ya !_

This time it’s an accident that you almost don’t answer, not quite sure when you started telling each other things like this. Your stomach gives a nervous little lurch and your reply to Niall is a quick, “Me too!” before you remember you’re supposed to be eating with your friend.

“Oh, yeah… it-” you just give her a helpless look.

She crows your name, “I said real boys!”

You slump a little in your chair. “He is a real boy, Sarah.”

“He’s also your client,” she points out, punctuating her statement with a bite of breadstick.

“That… it doesn’t matter, he’s still a guy. Besides it’s not like anything is going to come of it. Have you seen the women he’s dated?”

Despite being on the opposing end, the moment you try to hide your face in your soup after that comment, she frowns. “What’s that got to do with anything? Little snot would be lucky to have you.”

“You just said he wasn’t a real boy.”

“Yeah, well, Pinnochio would still be lucky to get it. What was he texting you about?”

Now you hesitate, your face going hot and quite possibly turning red. “Uh, I’m… I’m going golfing with him on Friday?”

She nearly spits her soda. “You, golfing?”

“Shut up, I’m just… riding in the cart, holding the clubs.”

“Oh, I bet you’ll be holding some clubs alright,” she snorts into her drink now.

“You need to make up your mind whether or not I can date this boy,” you finally laugh.

Her pale brows shoot up her forehead, nearly disappearing into her hair. “Well, look, no one’s ever going to be good enough for you, but I could make an exception. I’ll have to meet him, get him to sign my sister’s backpack or something.”

In the end all you can do is shake your head and laugh at her.

**  
When Friday rolls around, it’s an unusually clear and sunny day, the skies blue and open despite the air being chilly on your skin. Niall had shown up early with Paul, and he was dressed most certainly for a game of golf, in blue, black and yellow plaid pants and a blue polo, a jacket pulled over the latter to keep him warm and the cutest hat you’d ever seen sitting on top of his head. You’d felt a little underdressed or just awkwardly dressed, but you’d still gone for the black jeans and your two-tone violet striped sweater.

The three of you had gone on to breakfast, something traditionally English and more filling than the last time you remember. Niall looks positively lit up, his eyes vibrant, laughter rich when you crack a joke about needing to ride outside the van because of the amount of beans he and Paul consume between them.

“We’ll roll down t’ window for ya, sweetheart,” Niall says between cackles.

“Don’t worry, brought air freshener for that one,” Paul jerks a thumb in Niall’s direction, watching the younger man actually blush.

You’re stricken for a moment with how the crimson spreads across his cheeks, highlights those baby blues and darkens up freckles you don’t usually notice. But then you’re laughing, asking Paul, “That bad, huh?”

“Don’t ever get on a tour bus with 'im.”

“C'mon now,” Niall pretends to grumble, shoving Paul a bit.

After breakfast, you all make it out to the green - it’s a secluded place, obviously meant for the wealthy. You feel kind of strange and out of place, except for Niall’s voice in your ear and Paul’s hand at your back, helping you out of the cart when you reach the rest of the men Niall’s playing with. Paul plays caddy, leaving you to trail along behind Niall while he navigates carefully with his crutches.

There’s one face you recognize among them and despite the fact you’ve worked with big names before, this is one you’re actually a fan of and you can’t help grinning, even as Niall goes around introducing everyone.

“You’re Olly Murs!” you can’t help blurting and shut your mouth almost immediately in embarrassment.

The singer takes it in stride, laughing a little and reaching out for your hand, “That’s me, you are?”

You tell him your name, which is closely echoed by Niall interjecting that, “This is the friend I was tellin’ ya 'bout.”

Olly’s eyes seem to widen a bit and you don’t miss the way they rake down your body. You suddenly wish you’d left the stripes at home, that maybe you’d found a nice paper bag to wear so it wouldn’t show off the places where your attire is a little tight, sinking into soft flesh and accenting the generous composition of your form. You don’t know exactly how to feel about the once over, but if Olly doesn’t approve, it doesn’t show on his face. In fact, his lips split in a bit of a grin.

“Right then, well it’s really good to meet you. Niall’s, ah, well, he said himself told me about you.” He holds out a hand and you take it almost dumbly, letting his large and warm fingers wrap around yours briefly.

When he lets go, you look over to Niall, whose face has gone pensive, his brows knit and one corner of his mouth turned up in something that you don’t think is a smile. He straightens up though, puts on another grin to show you around to the other guys and you’re well aware that the only other woman present is married to one of the other players. She doesn’t really try to talk to you either and you’re okay with that - she looks a little distant, like someone permanently floating around on a cloud, dripping with too much jewelry for the task at hand, but her perfume smells lovely. You tell her so once, and she thanks you with a kind but absent smile.

At one point, Niall is limping along behind the rest of the group - he doesn’t listen about the cart, but Paul still drives it along behind your group while you hover at either of Niall’s elbows to make sure he’s okay.

He hits a spot of soft ground, the crutch sinking and his bad knee buckling. You catch him before he can go stumbling though, getting an arm around him.

For a second, he blinks up at you, and then his faces goes scarlet. “Ah, th-thanks, I’m… I got it. ’M good.”

You try not to think about the way his body feels even marginally pressed against yours, lean muscle and sharp contours. He’s so warm and he smells of a recent shower and nice cologne. His eyes are still on yours and his mouth moves, but he doesn’t say anything and you suddenly remember, “Oh, oh yeah. You good, you sure?”

He chuckles a little, almost anxious, but you get him upright on the turf again and Paul’s already made it over. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m sure, don’ worry. I think I need a minute to sit though.”

Of course, you agree, trying so very hard to ignore the butterflies losing their mind inside your belly.

It’s Olly that calls out, after Niall’s told them he needs a second, “Why don’t you let your girl play this hole?”

You open your mouth to protest something - that you don’t play, that you’re not Niall’s girl? But Niall beats you, flushed again and claiming, “She says she doesn’t play.”

Olly jogs over from the rest of the group, holding out the iron he’s been using the whole game. “C'mon, girly, have a swing at it, you’ve got to be better than Ireland over here.”

Niall makes a sound that can only be the equivalent of sticking his tongue out, but he doesn’t protest and you find yourself flushing as Olly’s hand slips around your arm and he tugs you back with him to the rest of the group.

“I really don’t know how to golf,” you mumble, kind of dumbly allowing yourself to be prodded around until you’re standing sideways at the tee.

Olly presses the club into your hand. “It’s nothin’. Don’t worry, now… like this…”

Miraculously, he doesn’t come up behind you, but his hands are steady and sure and you find yourself growing hot under your sweater as you let him arrange you. You’re more than aware that Niall is sitting at the edge of the area, on the seat of the cart, his crutches and golf club between his mismatched knees.

You glance back at him, finding his face set in hard concentration, eyes on you but not quite there either.

Unexpectedly, Olly does slip back behind you though, putting his hands at your elbows, mumbling about a practice swing, once, twice, then he lets go so you can get a good one in at the ball. It doesn’t go very far, but the other men cheer like you might have gotten a hole in one. Olly claps you on the shoulder, “Not bad, sweetheart.”

As everyone picks up their golf bags and such, you escape to the golf cart just as Niall is swinging his legs inside.

He looks over his shoulder at you as you clamber in the back and asks, with a not-grin, “Y’ know that Olly there is attached, hm?” You think it’s meant to be teasing.

You feel the red in your face as a burn that lengthens all the way down into your neck, heating you up faster than the feel of Olly molded against your back. Fuck, he probably felt all the weird spaces, the squish. The blush drains right back out of your face as you mumble, “I didn’t ask him to show me how to swing.”

Niall’s head tilts to the side, but that grin slides off, replaced with a more sympathetic look, “You okay?”

You bite your lip, eyes somewhere around his nose rather than making it to his gaze. “Yeah, sure, I’m okay.”

At the end of the day, Niall’s finished last, but the guys clap him on the back and tease him goodnaturedly, assuring him he’s done alright for being a gimp. You take a quiet ride back to his Range Rover in the golf cart, and he lets you help him in again, leaning into your grip a little more. It’s still a feat not to think too much about it, but you do your best, and crawl in with him, casting a worried glance over his legs that you can’t hide.

He chuckles a little, pulling your gaze up to his mouth and then his eyes, which don’t look so cloudy now, just a little tired and maybe even affectionate. “Swear I’m fine, lassie, y'gonna give me a complex goin’ all mudder hen on me.”

“Sorry, sorry,” you grumble, but it’s without heat, casting your eyes down with some embarrassment.

“Nah, it’s alright, really, makes me feel good. But I’m okay, doesn’ hurt t'at much now.”

“Yeah, once we made you take it easy,” you tease now, lifting your head to smirk a little at him.

“Can’t ya let me have one t'ing! Yer a right warden, woman, won’ even let a man have his golf.”

You laugh at his fussing, and the sound feels natural and right inside your belly, his tone warm despite the content of his words. Laughing with Niall is always the best, you’ll miss it when the vocal lessons are over. A look over at him and you hope that you won’t stop being friends just because you’ll have nothing else to teach him. He doesn’t seem like the type to lose touch, especially not after all your adventures together suddenly. It makes you feel even warmer inside and you sink into the Rover’s comfortable seat with a long sigh.

Your weekend passes quietly, and you use the time to clean up your home, get a few errands done and you have lunch with Sarah one more time only to have her grill you about golfing with Niall. She’d seemed convinced that it was just a euphemism, but you showed her a couple of the photos you’d snapped just because and the one that - right before you’d gone home - you’d asked Niall to take of you and Olly. The singer’s number is in your phone as well, but you know it’s definitely just because you’d gotten friendly enough and mentioned your profession so he’d said he would keep his eyes peeled for anyone who might need your talents.

Unfortunately when Monday rolls around, you’re not quite sure what happened but you feel absolutely miserable. You leave a message early in the morning on Niall’s voicemail, pop a couple of tablets for cold symptoms and then crawl back into bed to sleep the day away. At least that’s the plan until around noon, when you awake to the simultaneous sounds of someone knocking on your door and your phone ringing.

Groggily, you throw aside the covers, make sure you’re at least wearing the pajama pants you thought you put on before bed and then head to the door, leaving the phone to jingle on your nightstand. Sweeping sleep tangled hair out of your face, you put one bleary eye to the peephole and find a slightly awkward looking Irishman on your doorstep. Honestly, you almost don’t open the door. Niall won’t care, you try to reassure yourself, that you look a right mess, but, well, you look a right mess. And you’ve been trying so hard not to like him past just friends, but that ship is steadily sinking and thus you cannot really bear looking and feeling so awful in his presence.

So lost in thought you are that you actually jump when he bangs on the door again, his accent curling around your name on the other side.

You can’t just leave him out there. So, in your sleep pants - a well worn in pair of gray flannel with little pink hearts and black cats on them - and the matching camisole (there might be a hole on your left boob, you remember somewhat frantically as your hand twists around the knob), you pull the door open.

Niall looks a mixture of surprised and relieved and his eyes sweep across your form in a way you were certain only a mother’s could before going dark in a way that… well, you shiver a little bit, but convince yourself you’re sick and imagining things and croak out a, “Hey…”

His eyes jerk back up to your face, his cheeks flushed in the sunshine and cold. “Hey, yer not feelin’ well?”

The cold filtering in through the front door makes you shiver all the more, so you step back and sort of wave Niall in. You notice, as you do, that he’s got something tucked under one arm, when he turns to wave at whoever’s left in his car parked on the street. The sleek SUV begins to pull away.

You ask first, voice still rough, “That safe?”

Niall blinks back at you, accepting your unspoken offer to come inside and shut the door behind him. “Eh? Oh, yeah, s’fine. He’ll come pick me up later.”

“Oh… what- oh! Um,” you pause to cover up a cough with both hands, feeling your face hot with embarrassment. “Wh-why are you here?”

It’s his turn to look sheepish, his tongue skating across both lips before he thrusts what’s been tucked under his arm at you. “I, uh, I know I should’ve asked before I came, but…”

It’s basically a large tupperware container, clear plastic bottom, red top. You blink kind of stupidly at Niall before shifting it right side up in your grasp and peeling it open. Inside you find a small thermos - “Eh, hot chocolate.” - another smaller plastic container with golden liquid inside - “Me mam’s recipe for chicken broth….” - and two sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil.

“It’s just, um, corned beef and a little cheese, but uh, tastes good wit’ t’ soup.”

Still dumbfounded, holding the container open, all you can do for a second is look up at Niall. You start a bit when your vision goes blurry, but realize it’s tears. You shift the food to one hand, so you can swipe at your eyes, giving Niall a wobbly thanks aloud.

He looks a little flustered, redder now than he was standing out in the cold. “It’s alright, it’s nuttin’, ehm,” he flounders, and then says, “Okay, so… so sit down t’en, I’m gonna raid your kitchen and heat this up.”

“Huh?”

Niall steals the food he’d just given you, and bumps you with the single crutch he’d brought in with him. “Sit down! Y’gotta rest, I’m here now.”

You find yourself laughing, the burning in your eyes growing for a second, as you make your way to the sofa like he’d commanded. Now you aren’t even worrying about your messy hair or state of dress, and your cheeks feel warm but you know it’s not from fever. “I was resting before you got here, you know.”

Your kitchen is separated from the living room by a low slung bar counter, where Niall deposits the tupperware, leaning heavily on his crutch as he swings around into the kitchen. He makes a scoffing sound at you while he shows himself around, banging through your drawers and cabinets.

“Yeh, sure, but now I can take care a’ya.” He gives you a serious look over the counter, momentarily brandishes the pot he’s found at you and then sets to work warming up the soup the old fashioned way.

For a few moments you just mull that over, that face, the barely masked concern in his eyes when he peeks over at you again, his lips set in a thin pink line that even sick you still imagine kissing just as you’d dreamed about. You let out a hard sigh, eyes on your hands in your lap before the words just come tumbling out of you, “Why would you want to do that?” It’s broken up by some tiny interspersed coughing, but Niall hears it all the same.

He’s pouring your soup into a proper bowl when he says, “Why wouldn’ I? Yer too sick t’come out t’house and see me, can’t have t’at.”

Your cheeks color up and you pick your head up to really look at him. “Really?”

He brings you the plate that he’d balanced your soup and sandwiches on first, obviously awkward on only the single crutch, and sets it down before you. When he starts for the kitchen again - your hot chocolate is sitting on the bar counter - you touch his arm, try to get up.

“I can go get that.”

Niall grins down at you, gently slapping your hand away with his free one and blocking you from getting off the couch. “Ah-ah, nope. You sit an’ eat, I got it.” And he hobbles off, returning a few moments later with the drink, setting the steaming mug down beside your plate.

“How’d you find all my dishes and stuff?” you wonder, sandwich halfway to your lips. You can barely look at him, feeling all kinds of weird and warm and affectionate. If he were anyone else, you’d want to press in close, have a snuggle while you sleepily down the food he’s brought.

“Treasure map, of course,” he answers, and you just end up snorting.

“Ya like it all?” he asks a few minutes later, when he’s sitting on the couch beside you, crutch propped at the end. He’s close enough that his good leg touches yours, knee bumping you. Goosebumps crawl down your skin and you try your damnedest to ignore them.

“It’s great,” you tell him, with a little grin and a sniff of your stuffy nose. “I’m… thanks, for bringing this over and stuff.”

Niall leans across the space between you without warning, puts his head on your shoulder. You can feel his fluffy hair, left undone - he once told you he can’t style it properly himself - and brushing the side of your neck, your shoulder. His cheek is warm and so is his breath, ghosting over your skin. Honestly, you might pass out. Niall’s head turns just so, his lips are almost on your shoulder and your chest seizes so hard you start to cough. As you hurriedly shove your hands over your mouth, Niall jerks upright again with a wince, but just as quickly his hand comes down on your back, not quite pounding though, he’s too gentle with you for that. It turns quickly to rubbing in slow circles, the callused ends of his fingers skimming the skin bared by your camisole before rubbing down along your back through the fabric.

“Ye okay?” he asks, once or twice and for a moment as you wheeze and catch your breath, all you can do is nod, trying not to cough on him. While you were distracted hacking up a lung, he’s close enough to be pressed to your side now, warm through his sweatpants and tee as he rubs on your back.

“Uh, y-yeah,” you mumble, your face splotchy from blushing and coughing, the heat crawling all the way down into your belly. “S-sorry.”

Niall’s hand stills, splayed on your back: you can feel each finger like a line of heat on your skin. “No, it’s okay, just worried abou’ you.” His voice is low, enough that it makes you look up at him. There’s a second where your eyes meet and his are very blue and wide and anxious, before he blinks, smiles at you. “There, better now?”

You swallow hard, nodding your head and that hand on your back is suddenly an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him, rubbing at your bare shoulder. His head tilts briefly onto yours.

“I’m sorry ya feel so bad, hope I didn’ make it worse comin’ down.”

Quickly shaking your head, you clear your throat and tell him, “No, no, it’s,” ugh, your voice is even worse now, hoarse from coughing, “you brought me good food and hot chocolate. Only thing… um, only thing better than medicine is a good friend.” You smile up at him now and it’s shaky, but natural. Your heart is yammering inside your chest and your lungs hurt, but Niall is so warm and comfortable and you’re not so stuffed up that you can’t smell the cologne he must have put on. He’s always particular about that; you’ve never left the house without him putting on a spritz.

His smile wobbles momentarily, but only to turn into a grin and a laugh, “‘Course, yer right abou’ t’at, just in time I am then.”

Niall spends a couple more hours at your house, waiting around while you shower and put on warmer pajamas. He makes sure to wash the dishes he’d used of yours and cleans up his own tupperware to take back home, shoos you when you try to help and threatens you with his crutch.

“You’ll fall down if you pick it up to hit me with!” you accuse with crackly laughter.

“Be wort’ it! Go sit down now, stop fussin’, girlie, how many times I gotta tell ya I got this!”

He all but tucks you back into bed before he’s called Basil to pick him up again. “I’ll check on ya tomorrow, ‘kay?” he asks at the front door, leaning briefly on you so he can shrug his coat back on.

You think about kissing him goodbye, but that’s not going to happen, even if you weren’t sick. And Niall lingers until Basil comes to collect him at the door with his other crutch. You can’t help waving a little before you shut the door on Niall and the cold.

Unfortunately, you end up canceling your second lesson for the week as well, and while that frees up the time slot you would have taken at his home, it doesn’t free Niall up for the day. He still texts you each day in between though, and that day as well, to ask how you’re feeling, to tell you he’s looking forward to you definitely being better and coming to see him for lessons next week. It warms you up all over and you have a very small moment to yourself thinking of it in a different light. Not even thinking of all the imperfections you’d once labeled not worthy of this particular ray of sunshine can burst your little bubble. You’ll just take it for what it is now, really, that you’re well and truly friends, that there’s something outside of teacher and student you share.

It’s enough.

**

That Saturday you’re feeling well enough to venture out of the house, throwing on jeans and only messing with your hair so much as it takes not to look like you only rolled out of bed. After slipping on a tank and your favorite sweatshirt, you find your keys and make your way into town, looking for somewhere to get a good bite to eat and maybe a single drink. You don’t have the luxury of Niall’s driver after all and if you park well enough you can walk the city until you’re perfectly fine to drive. Your lungs are still a tad sore, but the cold air feels good in them, using your legs only seems to energize you instead of weakening you as it had in prior days. When you’ve pulled your car into a space, your eyes alight on a familiar pub and you can’t help grinning a little to yourself. You’d enjoyed it before, even more since you’d come with Niall, and it just seems to call your name.

You can’t help snapping a little photo of their street sign, sending it to Niall captioned, “You might have started something :P”

You’re not expecting to see him in the flesh when you push the door in, his hand on his phone and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a laughing grin. He’s much too easy to spot, and he looks up when the door opens, his grin easing into a little cackle.

“Shoulda just asked ya t’meet me here,” he teases, shifting his crutches to the opposite side of him, making space for you at the bar. Basil’s there with him, inside because Niall appears to be dining alone as you’d planned to.

Your heart is a pounding thing, working it’s way into your throat, crimson splotching up your cheeks. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” you tell him.

“No, don’t guess ya would,” he says with an easy shrug, looking all the more pleased when you perch yourself on the stool beside him. Without warning, he reaches out, ghosting his fingers over the softest part of your side, digging in just enough to tickle.

A giggle erupts out of you before you can stop it, and you slap at his hand. “What’s that for?”

He gives you a little smile, like he’s got a secret that he won’t tell. “Felt like it.”

“Uh huh, well, stop because no tickling,” you tell him, making a warding sign with your fingers.

Niall laughs all over again. You love it when he laughs, rich and from his belly, it makes your own warm, tightens you up in places you’d tried so hard to ignore in his presence. The flush on your face isn’t long breaking out on your skin.

“Yeh, sure, okay,” he waves it off, still sitting backwards to the bar while you face it, face him. “Feelin’ better?”

“Much, thanks,” you tell him, and you remember him stopping by your home, feeding you and looking after you and you almost feel hot.

His finger pokes your reddened cheek and you don’t know when the two of you got to this level, this idea that touching is okay, ways in which you’ve only seen him interact with close friends, but you like it. You can’t even shy away from it; he’s a magnet. A ridiculous pull on your heart and the rest of your insides. “Y’still look a bit flushed,” he points out, looking a combination of amused and concerned, lips half turned up in a smile.

“I don’t think that’s from being sick,” you mumble without thinking and you know Niall hears you but he just grins to himself, doesn’t make you explain.

“Ya wanna have lunch with me then?” he offers, like you hadn’t already filled the empty seat beside him and honestly, how can you say no to that imploring face?

Of course, the answer is simply, you can’t.

The two of you order food and drinks - you finally decide a soda is simply the only way to go and Niall gets a pint because that’s just what he does - and he asks more about how you’re feeling, talks a little bit about the boring business he’d had to take care of when you canceled the second lesson. You assure him next week won’t be the same, you’ll be there bright and early Monday to work him to the bone as per usual.

While you’re talking, the two of you facing the bar now, you feel a hand on your shoulder, hear, “Hey, didn’t expect to see you here.”

Both you and Niall swivel around to find the man who’d bought you a drink the last time you were here with the same company. He’s as attractive as ever, tall and broad, bearded, but despite his friendly tone, he seems a bit peeved. He asks, while the two of you peer up at him, “You didn’t call me.”

“Uh…” you blink, and Niall’s gone a bit rigid beside you. From the corner of your eye you can see him and, beyond that, Basil tensing. “Well, I might have you know, except you didn’t give me a number to reach you at.” At least not that you remember.

“I did,” the man says, “Wrote my name and number on a napkin and sent it down to you with the drink.”

“I… never got it,” you say, frowning, glancing over at Niall to see if maybe he’d seen it instead. “I’m sorry, I just…”

Niall’s face is flushed, the color high in his cheeks, lips pressed into a thin line that betrays his frustration. The nameless fellow looks between him and you, and finally seems to deflate. “Right then, don’t even worry about it. You’re a pretty woman but…” He doesn’t finish whatever he was going to say, simply walks off, shaking his head, muttering to himself.

You feel a bit weird, your stomach twisted up with anxiety and it’s a bit dumb, you know you’re overreacting, but you say your thoughts aloud, “But what?” Pretty, but?

His face still spotted red, Niall peers over at you with his brows knit tightly together. “Huh?”

Your skin feels weird, not at all the comfortable place it was minutes ago. You tell yourself again you’re overreacting when you think you can feel every little place on you, from the plushness of your middle to the tiniest stretch marks on your thighs, that isn’t quite right, isn’t really pretty - or that it’s taken you a long time to really think it was anything other than gross. One stupid comment. It doesn’t happen often, but you’d let a little of your guard down with Niall there. You shake your head at him, mouth pursed and turn back to the food you ordered but no longer really want to eat.

It seems to click a bit for him then and though he’s never known you to be the kind to drown sorrows, he pushes his half finished pint your way, says with feeling, “But nothing, what an arse, that guy. Good t’ing I threw dat napkin away.”

“What?” your head jerks up now, and you look over at him. You still feel uneasy but now you’re curious, perhaps a bit frustrated. “Napkin?”

Niall’s face goes red again, but he knows he’s caught. The pint he’d offered you, he drags back so he can gulp at it once, run his bare wrist across his mouth to wipe away the moisture left behind. “Yeh, napkin. Lad left it for ya when we were here the other night. I tossed it on our way out.”

Straightening up in your chair, your stomach twisted into so many knots you couldn’t even hope to finish your meal now, you regard him. “Why would you do that?”

His mouth becomes a deep frown, and for a few moments he doesn’t meet your eyes, glances all around the pub like it’ll answer for him, or maybe a black hole might appear to swallow him up. Finally, he looks up at you, meets you head on. He looks stubborn and frustrated, embarrassed on top with the scarlet still staining his cheeks.

“Christ on a bicycle, woman!” he begins, before stopping, taking a breath and shaking his head at himself. You’ve gone a bit stiffer with surprise. “Why- I took ya on a date and some other guy was hittin’ on ya and-”

“Date?” you sputter dumbly, breaking off his words with your own shrill response. “Date! Niall, what are you talking about?”

“I been- I been trying to tell you! I was takin’ ya out but you didn’… you didn’ even think we were on dates. I mean to be fair, golfin’ wit’ my buddies not much of a date, but I wanted ya there with me, wanted ‘em to meet ya. I just- I been tryin’ to date you since I asked ya out to dinner in the first place.” His accent gets thicker and thicker the more he talks, his voice going rough in the middle of it. Any other time you’d get lost in the whiskey smooth feel of it low in your stomach, but you’re still reeling from the information it’s conveyed.

Several moments pass in silence interrupted on by the sounds of the pub around you and Niall’s heavy breathing. You feel dizzy and hot and maybe a little sick to your stomach.

“I didn’t- I don’t-” you stammer out, helpless. As much as you’d hoped, as much you’d told yourself hoping was silly, as much as you’d done to school your heart against it…. you have no idea what to say or how to feel.

“I know, I know,” Niall says, and all the air’s gone out of him in a rush of breath. His shoulders slump under his black and red flannel and for a long moment he simply hunches over the bar. “I know and I’m sorry, I should’ve - obviously if ya didn’t know or t’ink dey were dates, then ya don’t think of me that way and I should’ve just backed off but.”

“Niall,” you begin, but the words die on their way to your tongue, you can’t even remember what you might have said. Your insides feel like half formed jello, jiggling and runny and your head hurts very suddenly.

Before you can even hope to get your thoughts together, make some sense of the topsy turvy way your world has suddenly gone, Niall grabs for his crutches and slides off the stool. Your tongue is dry and heavy in your mouth, stalled by the way he painstakingly goes for his wallet, puts enough cash on the counter to cover both your lunches. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re impossibly sad, the blue so crystal clear you realize too late that it’s tears making them shimmer.

“Niall, wait, I-”

“No, no,” he holds up a hand and his voice is still rough, grating, but not harsh, not meant for you really. “It’s alright. Don’t gotta say anything. I’ll see ya Monday, then.”

With Basil resolutely at his side, he’s out the door before you can stall him again and you’re left, dizzy and lost on your barstool.

**

“What?!” Sarah’s voice is shrill on the other end of the phone after you’ve relayed the story to her.

“I fucked it all up, didn’t I?” you whine to her, curled up under all of your blankets, covered except for your head and the hand holding the phone.

“No, no… I mean, you can be pretty dumb-”

“Hey!”

“Shush! You can be pretty dumb about these things, but you know it might have helped had he said something like, oh, I dunno, you wanna date me? But you know, cute and Irish like he is. I can’t speak Irish.”

“I guess…” You bury yourself deeper into the covers, letting out a hard sigh.

“You wouldn’t have believed him, huh?” she says, her tone softening up on the other end.

“Would you?”

“About me? Or you?”

“Uh.”

“Look, I would believe it about you in a heartbeat, sweetie. I’m not just sayin’ that either ‘cause you’re my friend. Guy like Niall, he’d be lucky to have you, you know?”

“Maybe…”

“No maybe about it. The only maybe is maybe you should go talk to him, you obviously really like him…”

You let out a soft sigh, “I do, I didn’t want to, but I really do. And now he thinks I don’t - I just didn’t-”

Sarah shushes you, “I know, baby, I know. Get you some rest, call him tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

**

Monday morning dawns gray and dreary, but it still finds you on Niall’s doorstep at the appointed time for lessons. Your insides are all but quivering with anxiety, your stomach hard knots that refuse to be untied. It takes almost five minutes of standing in the misting rain to work up the courage to knock on the door. From inside you can hear a small commotion and a curse, but soon there’s the familiar thump of crutches and the door swings open to reveal Niall, dressed in sweats and an Eagle’s tee, his hair a mess and his face just slightly stubbly. He looks at you like he’s not sure you’re real.

Crimson climbs up your neck, but you quickly swipe it and the rainwater away from your face. “H-hey, um…”

“I didn’ think you’d show for lessons,” he admits, using the tip of one crutch to push the door further open. He hobbles backwards to give you space to come in.

“I didn’t know if I should,” you allow, softly, pushing the door shut behind you.

For a few seconds there’s nothing but silence between the two of you; Niall looks a little drawn, unhappy. You don’t know how to handle this, to be honest, so used to seeing the bright ball of sunshine he usually is. You squeeze your hands together momentarily, aware only now that you hadn’t even brought anything you meant to with you - the tape recorder, other paraphernalia for teaching.

“Well… well, c’mon,” he says, ducking his head and pushing himself forward to the living room.

You only let him lead you long enough so that the two of you can sit and if Niall looks surprised that you sit beside him on the sofa, then you pretend not notice.

Before the silence can stretch out any more awkwardly, and possibly before Niall notices you’re not even prepared to give a lesson, you offer, “I’m so sorry, Niall.”

He shakes his head, not quite looking at you, kicking his good leg out towards the coffee table. “Don’ worry about it, okay? I shoulda been better about lettin’ ya know what I meant and t’en… I dunno. But you don’ hafta apologize.”

  
It hurts to hear his tone of voice so low, all you really want to do is reach for him and pull him to you but you don’t know if he’s changed his mind about what’s going on, don’t know if thinking that you couldn’t possibly be interested has changed his own feelings.

“But I do, because I… I just didn’t think someone like you would- would ever-”

He glances up at you now, your eyes briefly meeting, and he interrupts, “Would ever what?”

“Would ever think about me like that.”

The fact that Niall looks lost for a second is almost heartwarming, encouraging, that he can’t think that way even when prompted. “I don’ even understand what you’re gettin’ at.”

“I mean, I just- You know, I’m not one of those itty bitty models I’ve seen you out with, like… “

Niall’s laughter is sudden and sharp; he slaps his good knee. “Oh! Oh, is t’at… fuck!”

“Uh…”

“Look, I like ya, ain’t mincin’ words abou’ t’at,” he tells you, serious now but with an undercurrent of that same amusement in his voice. “But ya thought… ya thought I wouldn’ ‘cause you’re not a tiny girl? ‘Cause ya got a lot of meat on your bones?”

You can feel your face flushing even darker and you’re not sure if you’re embarrassed or irritated, especially that he can say it aloud so bluntly. You’re a bit too used to people dancing around the fact that you’re fat, too used to “oh gosh, no you’re not, you’re pretty.” Like it’s a stigma that they desperately have to sugarcoat for you. No one’s ever just gone at it like a random fact: she likes cats, her favorite color is green, she’s fat.

Niall doesn’t have to wait for your answer, because it seems plainly written on your face. “Didn’ occur to ya I like more than one thing?” he wonders, and it’s gentler now as he scoots closer to you, emboldened by this conversation. “Does that mean ya-” Maybe not quite so emboldened.

“That I’m too dumb to know someone’s asking me out even though I really really want to have something with them?” you offer, your voice cracking.

He gives you a crooked, but affectionate smile, eyes going so soft it makes your knees feel too weak to hold you even though you’re sitting. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“You could at least disagree with the dumb part,” you grumble, but it’s swallowed in Niall’s laughter.

“Nah, honestly, it’s cute… well, it was less cute when ya had no clue what I was tryin’ t’ do, but you know.”

“It’s cute that I’m dumb?” Now you do shove him, gently, but he laughs.

“Yer not dumb, heaven’s sakes! Yer just oblivious, I t’ink it’s cute.”

Still flushed, you form a silent “oh” with your lips. Niall is still grinning like the world has suddenly been bathed in sunlight, like you’re not still soggy from the rain.

Without warning, he says, “I wanna kiss ya.”

You blink up at him and your eyes catch; his are round and blue and threaten to swallow you whole in their seriousness. A shiver ripples through you. “I, um,” you stammer.

“Unless ya don’t want me to?” His dark brows shoot upward; of course, Niall’s not going to make you do something you don’t want to.

You feel very suddenly flushed and anxious, but not unsure about your answer, “No, gosh, no, I want you to. I mean, we’ve technically been on two dates already, I think we’re at least in for a kiss now, huh?”

Niall obviously can’t help chuckling at your rambling, and he wiggles his way to press up to your side, reaching out to really turn your head to him, tip it just slightly and then kiss you. His lips are warm and slightly chapped, but soft under, melding against yours. Unbidden, your eyes slip shut and you lean in, sighing out through your nose. It’s hard not to feel like something heavy and awful has been lifted off your shoulders with just that. Niall scoots even closer, pulling his good leg up onto the couch so he can turn in towards you, prompting you to do the same. Your hands come down on his thighs even as his cup the sides of your face while he kisses you, gently pushing further, prying into your mouth so he can swallow up the next little noise you make.

He tastes like his breakfast and a little spot of coffee, like something that you know is just him, almost sweet and you can only be glad that, though you’d skipped breakfast, at least your own mouth is minty fresh from toothpaste. Niall’s hands run down over your neck and shoulders, gripping at your arms and pulling on you, like you’re just not close enough. You’re pretty sure there’s no more space for you outside his lap and you shift your leg a little, putting it over his so that your calf brushes his side as you move in for more.

For a long time, that’s all you do, kiss and touch, your mouths meeting again and again, his hands on your shoulders and arms, your sides, but in a weird moment he rubs his toes up against the inside of your thigh and it sends a little jolt up through your body, makes you gasp into his mouth from the new sensation. Clearly pleased, he does it again, and this time you laugh, the two of you pausing to breathe and Niall fake pouting, “What’s funny?”

“Don’t molest me with your foot,” you tell him with accusing giggles.

He tips his head back, leading your eyes up with his own and waggling his eyebrows. “Oh, want me t’ molest you with somethin’ else?”

“How about not at all, or we call it something else,” you snort.

“I can handle that.” And his gaze has darkened by this time, pupils growing large though he shuts his eyes almost as soon as he leans in to kiss you again and there’s a different feel in it this time, a heat pulsing through the two of you that runs its way down your spine and settles in your middle.

It’s hard to be self conscious when a boy like Niall Horan wants to get his hands on you, even more so when he breaks off to strip his own shirt off first and you’re treated to the pale expanse of his chest and the short and curly hairs dusting his pecs. He’s the one that looks a little embarrassed when you reach out and tug at one, “Hey, hey! Not much there yet, can’t risk losin’ it!” He slaps your hand playfully away, only to pull it back, dragging it against his ribcage and up further.

You’re giggling when you pinch at his nipple and he squawks, but it’s obvious by the way his skin prickles up that he likes it. With the idea you’re going to get your mouth on it, you start to bend in, but Niall stops you, hand threading through your hair.

“Ah, ah,” he says, tugging at the collar of your shirt, “This first.”

You still can’t help blushing, but between you and Niall’s eager hands, you get the sweater off and tossed aside, leaving you in just the pale blue bra you’d pulled on. It’s nothing fancy, just comfortable, but Niall looks pleased all the same and in the same way he’d encouraged you to feel him out, he gets his hands on you, running them up over the pale, spidery marks on your tummy and up under your breasts, kneading them both at the same time through your bra until you’re tipping your head forward and sighing your pleasure. You really don’t start to worry, letting him map out what he can feel, wiggling around so you can slip off your jeans, until he’s got to do the same to tug off his sweats. He looks a little embarrassed, but where he’s hesitant to just kick them off his healing leg, you don’t mind tugging them and kicking them away for him.

You can really see all of him now, all that soft skin and the pale freckly patterns running along it, your eyes drawn down his chest to the tuft of dark hair between his belly button and the waist of his underwear. And from there it’s the obvious shape of him, hard against the confining fabric. You can’t help swallowing hard, reaching out but peeking up at him all the same. There’s a grin on his face and he encourages you with a soft and breathy, “yeah..”

When you put your hand on him, curve your fingers just so to grip his cock through the underwear, his head dips back between his shoulders with a sigh. “Fuck, not even really touchin’ it yet,” he grumbles, more to himself than you.

A little bit of laughter bubbles up out of you, but you oblige the delicious sounds he’s made by rubbing him now, digging your fingers in a little and squeezing him. He lets you for all of a few moments before he’s dragging you to him, kissing your mouth hard and bucking up into your hand. His own hands go running down your back, unhooking your bra, tugging it over your shoulders and down your arms to add it to the growing pile of clothing in the floor. He shifts around a little, mouthing his way down your neck, rolling your skin between his teeth, but not too hard, hands running up your middle again to grasp at your breasts, the rough pads of his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you’re mewling softly and they’re hard against his hands. You’re still rubbing him through his boxer-briefs, trying not to think too much about what you want to come next, trying not to think too much about his eyes and hands on you, wondering if he’s enjoying it as much as you are.

As he sucks his way down the smooth column of your neck, his hand fumbles between the two of you, gliding along your belly and pressing into it as he wiggles his hand into your panties and between your thighs. A little hiss escapes you and you squeeze him a little too tightly, eliciting a gasp from between those lips on your throat. When he touches the center of you, where the heat’s been pooling and dampening, where you’re almost aching for him in spite of your nerves, your head drops forward onto his shoulder and you grind your hips forward, breathing his name against his skin.

He takes that encouragement, pushing forward, closing up absolutely any space between the two of you as he explores the generous lips between your thighs, encouraging you to push up so he can run his finger all the way down one side before dipping two in between them. By now you’re just holding onto him, distracted by the gentle glide of the digits along your wet slit.

“Couldn’ really believe ya wanted me this bad,” he teases gently, breath hot on your neck and shoulder and you whimper your own disbelief. “T’ought I’d blown it, all I been thinkin’ about is you, ya know? Everytime ya come t’ see me… didn’ want it to be fer lessons.”

He emphasizes his point by pushing those two fingers inside you, breathing out, “Yeah, c’mon babe, fuck yerself on ‘em, God, ya feel so fuckin’ good, gonna feel even better on my cock.”

You’ve never really been one to dirty talk right back and it’s so strange now; maybe you’d lapsed into this fantasy a time or two but that he’s right now, fingering you open for him, letting you squeeze him tighter than can be comfortable. And he looks so good, flushed down his neck and chest, his stomach muscles tight as he concentrates on working his fingers inside you.

Niall pulls them out too soon, and you think about lovers in the past who’ve had you suck their hands clean, but he puts his fingers in his mouth instead. Eyes slipping shut, he groans hard at the taste of you, before pressing his lips to yours again, kissing you hard like he can get it all from here. And that’s when he tugs insistently at your panties, “Too much, gotta… please, if you- ya still want to.”

You think he’s crazy for thinking you’d say no, but you don’t tell him that; you just show him by giving in instead, standing just long enough to slip out of your panties, baring yourself completely to him. His gaze falls on you like a starving man who’s just seen a silver platter filled with delicacies opened before him and he hurriedly works just to free himself while you stand there. You can’t help watching him spring free of his cotton pants, and you’re pretty sure you’ve never thought a cock was pretty before but something about the sight of his makes you shudder all the more. He lets you get your hand around him, stroking him, working gently at the foreskin around the weeping tip, slicking your hand up with precome to make it move faster, but he stops you when his breath starts to go ragged, pulls you towards him.

But you resist now, protesting, worriedly, “Wait, shit, Niall… No, your knee… I-I’m gonna crush you!” It’s not quite a bucket of ice water, imagining hurting the boy should you climb on top of him, but it’s enough. God, you couldn’t forgive yourself.

Something like a growl escapes him and he tugs at you again, “Yer not gonna hurt me, c’mere.”

“Niall…”

His hands on your tummy, fingertips digging in, he looks up at you somewhere between scowling and pouting, “C’mon, I mean it. Like my women on top, want you to ride me. I swear, it ain’t gonna hurt me.” But he grins slyly, “If it does, ya can just make it up to me.”

You’re still fretting and you slap his shoulder, but Niall’s unconvinced, cackling when you hit him. He lets the bad leg hang off the sofa, not quite putting pressure on the floor and this time you let him pull you down, spreading your thighs to either side of his slim hips. His breath escapes in appreciative hiss and he reaches between the two of you, grasping his cock to line himself up with you and you both moan your relief as he slips up inside you. When you don’t quite grind down on his pelvis though, his hands find your hips, tug you until your body’s flush with his and he’s buried as deeply in you as possible. Your hands are on his chest, nails digging in and for several moments, the two of you just relish in the connection, Niall’s eyes dark, pupils blown wide as his gaze holds yours. He gives a stuttery little flick of his hips though and that’s all you need, mewling his name as you take the reigns and push your body against his.

His hands can hardly find purchase in one place, like he means to touch every part of you there is, means to tongue his way through every pale line running along the tops of your breasts, fingertips digging red marks in along the ones that mark up your belly. He uses his huge hands on your hips to move you sometimes, breaking up the rhythm you set so that he brushes other parts inside you, working what he calls the sweetest noises up out of your throat and mouth. And he kisses you, over and over, breathing praise against your mouth, his eyes shut tight and his voice strained, sometimes rasping out against your neck as his lips find that space between it and your shoulder and he bites and nips. Using his foot braced against the couch, he fucks up into you, meeting you when you start to tire despite the fact you’re still burning for him, gasping, “Niall, fuck, fuck, please, Niall,” each time he slides home and when his fingers find the hard nub of your clit they run over it mercilessly. You’re pretty sure he writes his own fucking name on it, runs his fingertip around in circles and across it in figure eights and you come undone against him with a shout.

He’s practically yanked over with you, “Fuck! Oh, fuck me, holy fucking Christ!” as your walls clamp down on him, milking the orgasm out of him and his voice goes thin and desperate as he comes, filling you up in a hot rush.

You give in to the idea he doesn’t want you to hop off, wraps his arms around your shoulders and breathes a “nuh uh” when you try to get up, “Stay wit’ me, babe, still feels really good inside ya, can’t believe ya’d let me… still want you so fuckin’ bad.” It’s all soft, almost sweet, his cheek sweaty against yours and his breath in your hair. He pets through it and down your back when you finally relax, not letting him take the full brunt of your weight but knowing you’re still a dull sort of pressure on top of him. You can still feel him, heavy but soft within and it’s… mostly you’re just as amazed as he is.

For a crazy second your eyes sting as the two of you lay there, cooling off, his bad leg jumping a bit from muscles he shouldn’t be using yet, and you want to run away only he holds you tighter every time you tense up.

“Why do you keep doin’ that?” he wonders, his voice gone low and gentle.

You whisper, “Kind of afraid that’s it…”

His chuckle isn’t so harsh this time, just affectionate, tickling your ear with a little rush of air. “Not it at all, almost mad ya doubt me. I just want you to stay wit’ me, okay? I-I got these feelin’s, ya know, want… I wanna share ‘em with ya, if you’ll let me.”

The tears really do well up in your eyes this time and you hide your face in his shoulder, thankful the sweat on both of you will hide the hot moisture of them. “Yeah, yeah, I will… pretty sure mine are all the same.”

He lets out a little sigh of relief, only to joke, “Guess I’m done wit’ vocal lessons, hm?”

Your eyes still shut, lashes still wet with happy tears, you laugh softly into his neck. “Yeah…. yeah, you passed with flying colors.”


End file.
